“Mr Sawyer, how could anyone with any human feeling remain passive while our countrymen are still held in Algiers, in shameful slavery?” She couldn’t help letting some of her disapprobation leach into her tone. “It has been almost a decade and still our country refuses to act.”
“Indeed, it is terrible business what those Barbary pirates have done, but our country is young and money is limited.” He rolled his shoulders up and tilted his head to the side. Then he relaxed. “Without a navy and without large sums to pay their ransoms, I just don’t see what more can be done.”
He popped a piece of orange into his mouth and chewed it slowly.
She resisted the urge to shake her head. Initially, he had seemed like a kind person. How could he just stand there and say those things? Didn’t he care about what his countrymen were going through? Apparently not. Unfortunately, in her experience, his apathy wasn’t atypical. Her shoulders sagged. It was so hard to see what needed to be done so clearly and yet to have others be so blind and deaf to her message. But she couldn’t give up.
Clearly she’d have to try harder.
“Please, Mr Sawyer, you must listen.” The words rushed past her lips, their urgency pressing hard on her. She took a deep breath and made a concentrated effort to slow down. “The long-term lack of concern over this issue is what has allowed those men captured in eighty-four to be held for all these years. My book would really help people to see this issue in a more personal light. People need to see those men as fellow citizens, with families who love and need them—not just as names on a list.”
“Young lady, I’ve told you repeatedly what I need. The public wants to read stories of captivity, torture, ravishment, a little allusion to sexual depravity…heaving bosoms.” Mr Sawyer’s gaze dropped to her bodice. “Though for myself, I prefer more tender fruits.” His leer was unmistakable.
She gasped and fought a sudden wave of dizziness. Every time she’d come here, he had pushed the bounds of decency a little more. However, no man had ever spoken to her so bluntly as he had just done. For one thing, they would never have dared with her formidable, sharp-tongued grandmother always close by. But here, today, Emily was alone and she’d have to fend for herself. She crossed her arms over her small breasts and squared her shoulders.
“We could discuss a compromise.”
“A compromise?” she asked warily.
“Aye, a compromise.” He pushed away from his desk and walked towards her.
The predatory glint in his gaze sent gooseflesh rising over her neck. She quickly retreated several steps, until her back hit the wall.
“If you would agree to meet with me tonight, for a late supper, I would gladly print your little stories in my bi-weekly gazette.”
From the look blazing in his beady, lead-grey eyes, she had no doubt what he meant and it had nothing to do with eating supper. That look was so intense, it ought to have frightened her, for no man had ever looked at her with such open lust. But instead, anger burnt through her. This vile man was proving everything Grandmother said about the world and its dangers correct. She hated him for that. However disgraceful a feeling it was, she couldn’t help but resent Grandmother’s protective, fearful ways. She didn’t want Grandmother to be right.
Dear heavens, had she really been stupid enough to come here today and expect to be taken seriously? But, then again, no other printer in Philadelphia would even give her the time of day. She just had to get her book printed. She had to do it for sake of the men still suffering in foreign captivity. It was her life’s mission.
“Well?” Mr Sawyer’s voice broke into her thoughts.
Taken unawares, she wasn’t quick enough to stop him from taking her hand into his ink-stained, hot, dry one. She suppressed a shudder of revulsion and slipped it out of his grasp.
Yet hope flared in her breast—it wouldn’t allow her to let go of the possibility that she’d misunderstood. Oh, fancy chance that she could ever slip out past Grandmother for such a late night meeting. The very thought of trying sent quavers through her limbs. But she’d have to do what she’d have to do to get her book printed. The captives were counting on her.
“You’d really print my book, if I—I went to supper with you?” Her voice shook so hard she could barely get the words out.
“Well, that’s where the compromise comes in. As far as printing a book with the woodcuts needed to reproduce your illustrations—as good as they are—I’d need to see an interest from the public for more of your work. It’s just too expensive of an investment. I will run your little stories as a series, one man‘s story every two weeks.”
Her mouth fell open and for a moment her brain wouldn’t function. Then the full outrage of his suggestion hit her. “B—but my work without the illustrations will lose its impact! It’s just not the same at all! Without the faces to put to the names, the work seems more distant, less real. I just can’t agree to publishing anything less than the whole work as I intended it.”
“Then we remain at an impasse. If you change your mind, come back and see me. Otherwise, I am a very busy man and, to put it bluntly, you’re wasting my time.”
Emily left the printer’s shop, as she always did, in a state of shock. How could anyone with any sense of patriotism or compassion not jump at the chance to bring fresh sympathy to the issue of the Americans still languishing in Barbary?
Her father had been one of the mariners on board the Maria of Boston. He had been taken into captivity and had eventually died of the plague. There would be no chance now for his freedom, but there still was a chance for the other men. She’d do whatever she had to in order to see that they got that chance. But she’d never, ever see her work chopped up piecemeal or slanted to appeal to base tastes.
It must be very hard for a man like Mr Sawyer to live with his own conscience. His sleep must be haunted with all manner of nightmares. Well, she had no time to waste on pity for that. The nation needed her work, to wake it up—to save its very soul. And small, short-sighted minds like Mr Sawyer’s were keeping it from being printed.
She’d exhausted every avenue she could think of—what else could she possibly do?
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About the Author
Emotional. Evocative. Erotic. Historical Romance from the Georgian and Regency Eras, set in both England and America. Whether they are bold or shy, my heroines' strong desires and deep emotions drive the plot—and drive their heroes to the point of no return.
I have always been a daydreamer who told myself stories of love and romance set in other times and places for my own pleasure. Eventually my story worlds became so real, they demanded to be brought out of my imagination and onto the page. It gives me great joy to finally share them with you. I hope you enjoy my story world.
I am married to my own hero and we share our life with a very quirky calico cat. I have a BA in History and I love to read, both romance and scholarly history and I listen to a variety of music from classical to reggae. But mostly I am hard at work researching and writing my next story.
Email: [email protected]
Natasha loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
Also by Natasha Blackthorne
Grey’s Lady
White Lace and Promises
Alex’s Angel
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